“Everything has been quite all right,” said Mrs. Morrisey.  “The men have got on nicely with their work.  Lane has taken advantage of your being away to give the car a thorough overhaul, and—­and I think that is all, sir.  There are a few letters waiting for you.  I’ll get them.”

From whom this letter?  Whose hand this?  He wondered.  He had never seen “Her” writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers.

Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic.

“Mrs. Morrisey!  Mrs. Morrisey!  When did this letter come?”

“Oh, that one, sir?  It came ten days ago—­the very day you left, the same evening.”

“Then why—­why in the name of Heaven—­” he began, and then stopped himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be sent on.

“I hope it is not important, sir?”

“Important!” he said.  “Oh no, not at all, nothing important!” Again he read—­

    “Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have
    subjected me to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you
    to meet me in London at the earliest opportunity...”

At the earliest opportunity!  And those words had been written eleven days ago; and she had underscored the word “earliest” three times.  Eleven days ago!  “I feel I have a right to appeal to you for protection....”

She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read the written words.

What was she thinking of him?  What could she think of his long silence?

He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey.  There was only himself to blame, no one else!  And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and interfering with other folks’ love affairs, and all the time Joan—­Joan was perhaps wondering, watching, waiting for the answer that never came.

He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind.  He wrote instead.

“I have been away.  Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach me.  I am at your service in all things.  Heaven knows I bitterly regret the annoyance that you have been caused through me.  You ask me to meet you in London.  Do you not know that I will come most willingly, eagerly.  I am writing this on the evening of Tuesday.  You should receive my letter on Wednesday, probably in the evening; but in case it may be delayed, I suggest that you meet me in London on Thursday afternoon”—­he paused, racking his brain for some suitable meeting place—­“at four o’clock, in the Winter Garden of the Empire Hotel.  Do not trouble to reply.  I shall be there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will ever be,

      “Yours to command,
        “Hugh Alston.”

This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the post.

Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and there had come no reply.  The man had ignored her, had treated her with silent contempt.  The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of miserable self-abasement to her.  She had pleaded to him for help, and he had treated her with silence and contempt.